A game of chess
by Zoisite
Summary: In between love and hate, there lies understanding. Suikoden V, Gizel/Sialeeds.


_'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.  
__'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.  
__'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?  
__'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'  
__  
I think we are in rats' alley  
__Where the dead men lost their bones._

T.S. Elliot, _A Game of Chess, part of The Waste Land_

Twenty... twenty-one... how many strokes a night did Arshtat insist was necessary to comb her hair? Sialeeds had forgotten, and she tossed the brush on her dressing table, smiling as it slid down the marble surface and clattered to the floor. If this was a day like any other, she would just make her way down the hall and ask. But this wasn't a day like any other. And no matter how often she would walk to the Royal suite... Arshtat would never be standing there again, her eyes softening as she turned towards her.

With a sweep of her arm, she sent the ornate silver tumblers to the floor as well, powder wafting thick through the air and clinging to the walls. Another, and the perfumes her nephew had brought back from the island nations mixed with the broken glass.

Twenty-two... twenty three... how many more days of this?

A shadow flickers in the mirror, and she stands up hurriedly, toppling the stool she had been sitting on. _He_ was standing there, barely past the open door, a dark, ominous presence in spite of his golden hair, blocking the light from the hallway. She remembered when Ferid used to stand there, in his black and gold uniform, a gentle smile on his face. She remembered when even _he_ used to stand there, when he was so much younger: hesitating, his face as red as his coat, his green eyes shining, all bright colors and smiles and light.

But, today, _he_ didn't smile. His back is stiff even in the supple coat usually worn by the Queen's Knights, stiff as if he was still wearing the heavily starched jackets of Stormfist aristocracy.

"Did I startle you?" He asks, his tone almost conversational, "This isn't like you at all, you used to always know when I was coming."  
"Back then, Gizel, you used to wear those awful steel-shod shoes."  
"Ah, yes, do you like these new boots? As Captain of the Queen's Knights, I assumed I should wear something appropriate."  
"It doesn't suit you."

He closes the door, a hand against the frame to muffle the sound, then takes a few steps into the small room.

She leans back against the table, tossing her hair defiantly, as if there wasn't powder on her shoes and broken glass around her: "How is Lym?"

He stops short, and shrugs. A step away from two plush chairs and a small golden side table, three steps away from her narrow curtained bed, maybe five steps away from being able to fully face her. "I assume the guards are keeping her out of trouble. I can check up on her later this evening if you wish."  
"If you lay one finger on her..."  
"I know the rules of this country too well… did I even attempt to touch you only once? And here you are, accusing me of taking advantage of a child."  
"She is your wife."  
"She is my claim to the throne. Nothing more, nothing less."  
"She is the Queen!"

Crimson creeps on Gizel's features, like a child at the edge of a tantrum. One step forward and his hands reach out to grasp the plush back of a chair. A book, which had been carelessly left on its arm, falls to the tiled floor: the soft thud, leather on marble, of the spine comes first, followed by the hushed sound of the pages fanning open.

"Perhaps", he enunciates slowly, a restrained sort of rage bubbling under his words, "but I am King of Falena now", he leans forward, and color blooms on his face, not the product of the childhood shyness she remembers, but of anger born of years of resentment, "Look at me, Sialeeds, I am King! King! And this was no accident of birth, I did this on my own! I earned it! I am so much more than the boy you tossed aside all those years ago!"

The chair clatters to the ground and Sialeeds winces.

He stands there, his jaw locked, his eyes intent on a spot on the wall near her face. And she is the one to move forward, pushing herself away from her dressing table, walking through the discarded powder clinging to her shoes, kneeling to pick up the chair, running her hands along the velvet as she sets it to right…

"Gizel, this is a terrible thing we've done."

He exhales slowly, a hand reaching out to rest on the back of the same chair, on the same fabric, next to hers, but not touching, never touching.

"My nephew is at the gate of the city", she continues, "Soon we will die. All because of your ambition." She feels the shift of his weight against the chair, and digs her fingers in the fabric of his ample crimson sleeve before he can escape. "Your ambition... and my pride. We never did play by the rules, did we?"

He is stubbornly looking at the wall, the joints of his fingers white, and when he answers his voice is dry: "Our life was a game of chess. You loved it."  
She looks down at the sharp sliver of deep blue velvet between their hands. "I never cared for traditions, but I never let you touch me because... I was afraid."  
"You drove me crazy." His anger was tinged with fondness.

His eyes are still fixed on the wall, hers on their hands, and she whispers: "Touch me."

He bites his lower lip, his back stiffening. "I'm married to your niece."

A chair between them. A chair, traditions, wedding vows, civil war.  
A few threads of deep blue velvet.  
Sialeeds takes a deep breath and slides her hand on the fabric, closing the gap between them. Now, with the sides of their hands pressed against each other, she notices how light his skin is, almost as light as hers. She brushes her fingers against the back of his hand, one at a time, first her thumb, then her index, moving slowly upwards to feel the soft skin on the underside of his wrist. He is unnaturally still under her touch.

"Why won't you touch me…"

Almost involuntarily, he rips his gaze away from the wall, and turns his unbelievably green eyes on her.

"Gizel?"

His free hand reaches out, fingers tangling in her blond locks and he pulls her towards him. She gasps as their lips meet.

This time, she is the one to push the chair away. She doesn't even hear it hit the floor.

Finally… touching.

Her hands in his hair. Against the slightly scratchy skin of his jaw.  
His hands on her face. Down the curve of her back.  
Her hands tugging at the sash around his waist, fingers digging into his black coat as she pushes it off his shoulders and it pools at their feet, spilled ink on the white marble.  
His hands, against the small of her back, pressing her against him.

A step towards the bed. Then two. The small room stretches: it suddenly feels immense. She grabs a hold of his collar and tugs. His shirt slides off his right shoulder and he lets her drag him to the cold floor. She shivers against the marble, a chill going down her spine, then sighs as his weight settles on her, the sigh turning into a moan as she feels his hand travel down her body, from her chin, to her breasts, down past her hips, slowing to stroke the inside of her knee.

His caressing fingers trail across her calf, up her inner thigh, and she arches her back: "I… I will betray you tomorrow."

A kiss in the crook of her neck. Warm lips caressing the underside of her jaw.  
A whisper against her skin: "I know."  
She closes her eyes.


End file.
